


Patching Things Up

by sharkie335



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, Frottage, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie335/pseuds/sharkie335
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Shadow coda thing</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They didn't say anything as they put the warehouse behind them. As soon as Dean slowed down, Sam turned in the seat and dug around in the back, pulling out the mini first aid kit that they kept back there. Any serious patching up was going to have to wait until they could stop, but he could at least pull out some gauze to press against the gouges on his cheek.

Handing some over to Dean for the cuts on his forehead, he folded the gauze and pressed it to the claw marks. He could feel the blood soaking through, warm on his fingers. Closing his eyes, he sighed. He'd thought they were so close, only to have it be a trap. And once again, Dad was gone, and they were on their own..

When Dean finally spoke, it was tentative, a sound unlike his normal brash self. "Sammy? You okay?"

"Yeah, Dean. I'm fine. Just wish this was over, you know?"

"I know. Just wanted to tell you that you did good back there. That flare really worked, and, well, you just did good."

Sam opened his eyes and looked over at his brother. "Thanks, Dean." Dean nodded jerkily, his eyes still focused on the dark road ahead of them. "We should find a hotel after we get some miles, don't you think? We both need to get cleaned up before we get pulled over."

Dean nodded again, steering the car with sharp, precise movements. "I want to get out of Chicago first. I don't want to be any where near here when those _things_ put themselves back together."

Nodding, Sam let his eyes fall shut again. He couldn't believe that months of struggle and fighting, and after all that, they'd gotten what? Five minutes? Maybe ten? Before Dad had driven off in his truck, and they'd taken off in a different direction. God only knew when they'd meet up again.

"It won't be long, Sammy."

"What?" Sam's head jerked up. He hadn't said anything out loud, he knew he hadn't.

"It won't be long till we stop. You're right - we need to find someplace to clean off some of this blood. If the cops pull us over, we're fucked."

"Oh. Right." Sam sighed. At least Dean wasn't reading his mind now - that would be just too scary to contemplate, because there were thoughts in there he never wanted Dean to know about. Ever.

As late as it was, there wasn't much traffic, and they got to Route 55 relatively quickly. Dean pulled off at the first rest stop, and the two of them stumbled into the bathroom.

The splash of cold water on his face made Sam hiss in reaction. A hand came down on his shoulder, and when Sam stood up in reaction, Dean pulled back, a wet paper towel in his hand. "Let me - " he said, waving it at Sam.

Sam nodded and leaned back against the sink, letting Dean gently wipe away the blood on his neck and face. As the towels got stained with blood, he didn't throw them away, instead tucking them into a plastic bag to carry out with them. Sam nodded - if Meg had associates following them, their blood would make a powerful talisman in tracking them.

They couldn't afford to stop for long, certainly not long enough to do a thorough patching job, but they could at least make sure that they'd stopped bleeding. A quick change of clothes, bandages taped over the worst of the gouges, and they were back on the road.

When they finally got to Springfield, Sam reached over and laid a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, startling him out of the daze he was driving in. "We need to stop, Dean. We need to rest, and do a better job of patching up."

Without saying anything, Dean pulled into the first motel they saw, and for a long moment they both just sat in the car. Then Dean slapped his hands on the wheel and blew out a hard breath. Sam could almost see the fake smile being summoned up and plastered on Dean's face, and he went in to see if they could get a room.

The smile fell off as he came back out, and Sam stiffened up, hoping that there wasn't a problem. "Everything okay, Dean?"

"Yeah. Just... tired, you know?"

Sam nodded, and the two of them headed to the room, carrying the duffel of clothes, another of weapons, and the full first aid kit from the trunk. The motel was one of the better ones, but neither of them were in any shape to really notice. Instead, Dean locked up, spreading salt in front of the door and window, while Sam silently got out several magnesium flares and scattered them around the room so that they were always within reach of one.

When he finished, he turned to face Dean, who was pulling out a fifth of whiskey and stitching supplies. "You're first, Sammy."

Sam groaned, but didn't argue. They just headed to the bathroom, where Dean poured several shots for Sam to drink. Sam didn't hesitate, just tossing it back and taking a second to savor the burn before Dean encouraged him to lean forward over the sink so that he could pour some of the whiskey over the cuts in his cheek.

Hissing, Sam resisted the urge to punch Dean or the wall, instead letting the alcohol sizzle, feeling like it would strip the skin right off. It was still burning when Dean guided him down to sit down on the toilet.

He closed his eyes and bit his lip as the needle slid through. Dean whispered soft soothing words as he stitched, nonsense syllables that Sam could remember from injuries when he was little.

The familiar soothed him, letting him fall into a daze where he could barely feel, barely hear. When Dean finished, he shook Sam slightly, bringing him back from the zone he had retreated to.

His cheek felt tight where the stitches pulled, but it wasn't more than a nagging ache instead of the burning pain from earlier. Shaking off the last of the lethargy from the spell he'd fallen under, he stood up and stretched.

"Your turn."

Dean's cuts weren't as deep or as wide, requiring only a good cleaning and butterfly strips to hold them closed. When he'd finished cleaning them up, he stood up, ignoring the way his knees creaked from kneeling on the hard bathroom floor.

Turning his back on Dean, Sam started cleaning up the kit, putting things back in their various pockets and noting which supplies would have to be replaced. When Dean's hand fell on his shoulder, he flinched.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He wasn't, really, but he wasn't going to get into it. He knew that Dean had been right in sending Dad away, but there was part of him that was really angry and hurt that he'd been willing to leave.

Dean didn't say anything, just squeezing Sam's shoulder and going out into the main room. Once everything had been cleaned up, Sam followed him out. Dean was lying down on top of the paisley bedspread, one arm up over his face.

The bandage was glaringly white against Dean's tan, and Sam stopped dead, weaving on his feet. The realization of how close it had been, that the three of them could have been shredded into little pieces across the cheap hotel room, sunk in suddenly.

Sam stumbled across the floor to Dean's bed, practically falling onto it, only just managing to sit down on the edge. Dean didn't say anything, just reaching out and putting a hand on Sam's knee.

Sam sat there for a long time, fighting back the tears that threatened. Losing his father would have been... hard, but to some extent something that Sam had been preparing for most of his life. He knew that his dad wasn't infallible, wasn't immortal.

Losing Dean, on the other hand, would have been unbearable. Even if Sam survived it, he wouldn't have known what to do. He knew that his feelings towards his brother were twisted up, weren't normal, but right now he didn't care.

He had to at least try.

"Dean?"

Dean opened his eyes, looking up at him. "Hmm?"

"I'm sorry, Dean." And before Dean could respond, Sam leaned forward and kissed him.


	2. Stitched Together

Dean hadn't been sleeping when Sam finally came out of the bathroom. His thoughts were racing a million miles a second. So much had happened in such a short time, and he was trying to put it all together.

First had been that woman - skanky ho, more like - who had attacked him for, what was it? Oh, yeah. "Dragging Sam around like luggage." So she'd turned out to be the bad guy, and Dean logically knew that he shouldn't let her words get to him, but they still burned, at least in part because Dean wondered if it wasn't true.

Then had been that whole mess with Dad, and what the hell could he think about that? His dad wasn't supposed to be so easily taken in, not even for his boys, but he had been. If Sam hadn't thought so fast on his feet, they'd all be dead now.

His head spun with it all, and he finally just shut down with it, trying to focus on nothing in order to get his brain to stop running. When Sam collapsed onto the side of the bed, he reached out and squeezed his leg. He knew that Sam was having as much trouble as he was, but there wasn't much he could do to help.

He wasn't much good at talking, and besides, he'd said his piece earlier and Sam had pretty effectively knocked the wind out of his sails. All he could do was be there for him and hope that Sam would come around in time.

Then Sam was moving, leaning forward, and there were soft lips pressing into his. Dean was shocked stupid, unable to respond. When Sam pulled back, Dean opened his eyes.

The color was high in Sam's cheeks, glaringly obvious against the white of the bandages, but he didn't shy away or drop his eyes. Instead, he met Dean's squarely, almost daring him to say something.

Instead, Dean sat up a little. He'd never thought about kissing his little brother, but there had been something so right about that feeling. Sam backed up a little in response, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

Dean knew that he should stop this, should talk to Sam about it. Should be the responsible one since he was older. But he didn't care. This was good, this was right, and he was going to follow where it lead.

Bending forward, he laid his lips against Sam's, matching pressure for pressure. The kiss was light, restrained, just the simple contact of mouth to mouth.

Then Sam moaned, and opened his mouth for Dean. He hesitated for a moment, then slid his tongue into Sam. He could still taste blood and whiskey, but below that was a smoky, wild taste that could only be his brother.

Sam made another sound and his hands came up to wind around him, locking into the material of his t-shirt. When their mouths finally separated, Dean could hear Sam take a breath as if he was getting ready to say something, but before the words could spill out, Dean bit down gently on Sam's neck, and the tension in Sam's body seemed to dissolve.

The grip on his shirt shifted, changed, and then there were hands on the skin of his back as his shirt was rucked up. He backed up just long enough to let Sam pull it off, and then went back to mapping out the muscles and tendons of Sam's jaw and neck.

Sam clutched at him, moans rising from deep in his chest. The two of them clung like that, no sounds except for soft groans and grunts as their mouths explored what they could reach.

Finally, though, Dean pulled back from Sam and looked him in the face. "Sam?"

He looked defiant for a moment, then his face crumpled. "I - I nearly lost you, Dean. I can't do it - can't lose you."

Dean wasn't sure what to say. Their lives were dangerous and Sam knew that. Even without evil skanks out to kill them, there were always things that would try. "Shh, Sammy. I'm okay, we're okay."

Sam nodded and tried to kiss him again. This time Dean ducked under it and came back up, holding him back a little. "Sam. Talk to me. This isn't... is wrong, you know that."

"I don't care. I need this, Dean. Need to know that you're alive, that you're here with me, now. Please?"

Dean tried to hold back, tried to pull away from him, but Sam followed him, and when he bit at Dean's throat, Dean groaned and gave up. He wanted it too, wanted to know that they were both warm and alive and together, for however long they had.

When Sam pressed him back into the bed, Dean went willingly. All that separated them was their boxers and Sam's t-shirt, and Dean yanked at it, trying to get it off so that they could have skin against skin.

He leaned back and ripped it off, diving right back into Dean's embrace. The two of them twisted and turned, chests pressed together, breathing each other's air. Dean didn't even realize that he was hard until he felt Sam's cock pressing like a brand against his hip.

They fell into a subtle rocking rhythm, the material of their boxers less than nothing. Both of them were much more interested in continuing to kiss and taste the other than any sort of reach towards orgasm.

Slowly, though, it all switched around, and Dean was gasping for air, sucking it in like he couldn't get enough. "Aw, fuck, Sammy. So good..."

Hands tight enough to leave bruises, pain disappearing into pleasure into something so far beyond either that Dean didn't have a word for it. He had the momentary thought that Sam probably would, but then it whirled away as Sam mouthed over the tendons at the joint of neck and shoulder.

Both of them were shuddering and with a sudden cry, Sam arched above him, warmth and wet flooding between the two of them. That seemed to be what Dean needed, because the feeling that had been gathering low in his belly seemed to explode, taking Dean with it.

When he came back to himself, the two of them were lying on their sides, messy and sticky, but for the first time since they'd run into Meg in the bar, Dean felt like everything might just be okay.


End file.
